Prompt drabbles - Baird edition
by YourLovelyMajesty
Summary: I received some prompts recently and decided to share them on Fanfiction; if I receive any more, they'll be updated here. Baird-centered. Join Me: Chairman Prescott makes Baird an offer he'll never forget. Quiet Me: On Azura, Baird finds an emotional Anya and offers an arm to lean on. Rated for mild language.
1. Join Me

_"Join Me - write a drabble about one character giving another character an offer"_

"Corporal, there you are."

Baird looked up from his work. He was trying to revive a 'Dill but someone had scrapped most of its engine; if he couldn't get it running tomorrow, he'd bust into it and salvage what was left.

But now Chairman Prescott had deemed Baird worthy of a visit, and he quickly wiped his hands on the rag he'd stashed in his belt. "Chairman," he said with a respectful nod. "What brings you down here?"

The Chairman took a brief interest in what Baird was doing—a short glance at the 'Dill's engine, a murmured sound, but the expression on his face said it all. _I'm too high and mighty to play in this filth._

"I have a proposition for you, Damon—may I call you that?"

"You're the leader of the state here, sir. You could call me Lucy if you wanted."

The humor didn't seem to phase Prescott. He ignored it and continued, "Yes, well, I've been watching you recently, Corporal. You do good work. Your service history leaves much to be desired, but you have an exemplary mind. A harsh penchant for killing, of course, but otherwise you're valuable to me."

Baird felt his face start to twist with confusion but immediately schooled it into a blank, pleasant mask. Damn, he hadn't played politics for a while; his skills were rusty after seven years of disuse. But why did he have to play the game? He wasn't the son of a prestigious magistrate. He was Damon S. Baird, grunt in the COG army. He had carved his own name in life.

So he gave up on trying to be good little Damon.

"I'm flattered, sir, but I'd rather not get tangled up in politics. Imagine the gossip if it got out the respectable Chairman Prescott had a gay lover."

Baird had hoped to disarm Prescott, and he did. Prescott openly squirmed at the brutality of the blond man's joke. Maybe he expected Baird to be diplomatic, after all.

"That's not what I'm implying. In fact, I think you'll like my real offer better—a place on my private staff."

"As your goonie?" Baird balked. "Uh, no offense, sir. I just don't see myself as a bodyguard."

"Wrong again, Corporal. I want to extend an invitation to join my private staff as the genius everyone believes you to be." Prescott smiled. "I've heard your theories about the Lambent. Most of them are quite believable. I could use someone with your ability of deduction and technological expertise."

Baird had always received fleeting praise for his skills—thanks for fixing my generator, thanks for the tune-up, thanks for creating a closed-circuit connection so we can watch TV—but for Prescott to offer him a place among the elite? Jocelin Baird was surely rolling in his grave.

Baird chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment, considering the offer. "Wow. That's really generous of you, sir. What would I even do? Our technology is limited; we're down to the essentials, basically."

"Don't fret—I have a plan for that. I'm offering you top-of-the-line machines to tinker with as you see fit."

Ah, he saw the catch. He knew it was too good to be true. "And where is this top-of-the-line machinery?"

"Report to the docks at 0300 tonight and I'd be happy to show you," Prescott replied.

"Sounds kind of sketchy—uh, sir." Baird rubbed the back of his neck and noticed how Prescott's eyes immediately zeroed in on this small action. "You're not going to give me a new pair of shoes, right?"

The chairman laughed. "You've certainly got an imagination, Corporal. Remember what I said, and keep up the good work." He patted Baird's shoulder and walked away, his business concluded.

Baird turned back toward the 'Dill, his head spinning with questions. Being noticed personally by the chairman was something special. He'd given up on the world of politics, but if Prescott was trying to bribe him with machinery, there had to be good news attached. Maybe he'd show up at the docks, after all.


	2. Quiet Me

_Quiet me - write a drabble about one character trying to calm another down_

It was when Baird was exploring what he thought was a deserted hallway in Azura's hotel when he heard crying. _Shit, lucky us. This place is haunted._ No, wait. It was real crying.

He followed the quiet echo to the next split in the hallway to see a slight figure hiding behind one of the embellished columns. He recognized that blond bob. It was Anya. He felt ridiculous intruding on her private moment, but she had already heard him coming and hastily wiped her eyes.

When she turned, it was clear she was expecting anyone but Baird. She was immediately on the defensive. "Oh, hey Baird. You scared me." Her voice was weak and thick with tears, despite her trying to hide it. Her eyeliner was smeared along the bottom of her eyes, giving her a hollow look. "What are you doing around here?"

"Just, uh—" Shit, he was never prepared to deal with emotional women. "You know, touring the site. Wanted to see what kind of crazy shit Prescott had stashed away here."

"It's pretty impressive. Azura predates even the Pendulum Wars, but to find out about it now? Feels a lot like betrayal."

"Yeah, well, politicians. What are ya gonna do?" He shifted his weight from each foot, trying not to look at her. Why was she even crying? The war was finally over and done with; it was time to celebrate. Was there a bar on the island? He'd treat her to a drink if it helped.

Anya leaned her back against the column and sighed. "It took seventeen years, but we're finally here. It doesn't feel real yet. I saw it for myself and I still … I don't know how to feel."

"Does anyone?" he asked. "This is everything we've been fighting for and what's left out there? A scorched and barren country, maybe two handfuls of people to rebuild and repopulate." Baird joined her against the pillar with his own sigh. "We've got a lot of work to do."

"And so many people to bury, to hold memorials for—where do we even start?"

Death wasn't exactly his favorite topic, so he changed it. Sort of. He'd been meaning to catch Marcus and maybe check in on his mental stability, but even if he could find a way to ask, he knew Marcus would remain tight-lipped. So Baird chose the easiest source. "Hey, uh, how's Marcus holding up? You know … with Dom and Adam."

Anya seemed smaller after the question and Baird wished he could take it back. He liked Anya; she was one of the reasons he was still sane after this war. Being the calm voice in his head for so many years went a long way.

"He's handling it the only way he knows how," she whispered. "I keep thinking every time he looks at me that he'll finally let me in, but he's devoted to working. I asked Hoffman to help me find a way to sit him down and let him rest, but that's not Marcus. He has to work. He has to have a distraction." Anya ran a tired hand through her hair. "He watched Carlos die, Tai, so many more I probably don't know about—and now Dom and his father. All of them right in front of him. Do you have any experience with this, Baird?"

He lowered his head. Yeah, he'd seen people die; he was even there when Tai broke. But Baird didn't allow himself to dwell on it, any of it. There was nothing he could have done differently to save those people.

Finally he answered, "No. But you'll know what to say to him when he does open up. It's gotta be rough to lose everything like that. I hated my dad but imagining him dissolving right in front of me? Nah, even I can't handle that. Just … give Marcus some time, maybe some space. He'll come around. He knows you're there."

Anya wiped at her eyes again and smiled, laughing a little. "Thanks, Baird. You know, I waited years already—when Marcus was in prison. I wrote daily. I never gave up on him, even after it was obvious he gave up on me. It was all a misunderstanding, of course. What's a few more weeks, maybe months? The one thing I've wanted for Marcus is for him to know he's not alone, but I don't want to be obsessive, you know? I just want him to know that someone loves him, and that it's okay to feel it."

"Hey, you're the perfect balance between crazy-stalker-girlfriend and doting lover. You're practically a saint. Like I said, let him brood for a bit and then swoop in to pick up the pieces. You know him better than any of us, Anya. You'll know what to do."

Anya sniffled and leaned her head against Baird's arm. He didn't mind—she was one of the people he could stand and she was practically like a sister—although it did make him a little uncomfortable. He just didn't _do_ physical affection. But Anya needed the support and he was honored she chose him.

"Thanks again, Baird," she said. "You're a good friend. Don't ever doubt that."


	3. Get Me

_"__**Get Me**__" - one character saving another._

The concrete beneath his boots was solid. Then the ground rumbled, breaking the short peace of the afternoon. He aimed his Lancer, ready to fight, when he felt the ground shift beneath him. His legs were already moving but he had taken the time to look down, to see the concrete splinter and shatter like glass.

He was sinking.

The ground disappeared in a rush and he dropped his Lancer as he grappled for a hold along the edge of the pit. Looking down, he stared into the maw of hell; the heady scent of imulsion burned his nose and eyes. His heart pounded, his palms slick with sweat, and he panicked when he couldn't find purchase with his feet. He couldn't push his way out of the pit; his feet dangled uselessly beneath him. He couldn't pull himself up; his armor drug him down.

His strength quickly waned. His hands slid. Gritting his teeth, he dug his fingers into the sharp fragments of concrete and dirt.

He was going to die.

Either he would plunge into the darkness below or the Locust would come up and kill him. He held his breath as he heard movement. Something ricocheted and echoed behind him, a gurgling cry traveling down the tunnels. His hands slipped further, the weight of his armor making it impossible to claw his way back up.

Suddenly firm hands grabbed his arms. "Hang on, Baird! I got'cha, man, just hang on! Cole Train's here for you!"

Cole pulled until Baird's legs were free of the hole and he gasped for air away from the nauseating smell of imulsion. He rolled clear and ran with his partner towards the rest of the squad as the inhuman cry became louder.

Baird ducked into cover and pulled out his sidearm before slapping Cole's shoulder. "Thanks, man," he panted, wiping sweat from his forehead. "I owe you one."

Cole grinned. "No worries, baby. The Cole Train's always got your back, free of charge."


	4. Haunt Me

_"__**Haunt Me**__" - one character watching over another [as a ghost, watching from a distance]_

She kept careful tabs on his blond head through her scope. She had spent the last week and a half watching him, studying his schedule, his life. That was her job; she was a professional hitman, paid to observe and kill from a distance. Unemotional, detached, passionless—it was an easy life for such good pay.

It was always the elite that came to her. They wanted a rival out of the way, a lover silenced, but this contract was a tad unique. Someone wanted their son out of the picture. The man wanted an "accidental" scene. She didn't do accidental. She preferred clean and professional. One bullet was all it ever took.

The blond moved among the crowd, oblivious to the crosshairs trained on him. He smiled and schmoozed, shook hands, laughed. He didn't look as if he particularly enjoyed doing this; it was all a farce. She didn't care about his motivation, only his proximity to others. If she wasn't careful, she could ruin a nice ten-thousand dollar suit or dress, and wouldn't that just be a shame.

He stood alone at the buffet table and she knew this was her chance. She stared through her scope, mind and body going still. She inhaled as her finger closed over the trigger. His forehead was in the middle of her crosshairs; she could see individual strands of his hair, the startling blue of his eyes. There was no one to block her shot and no wind—the perfect execution. Slowly, barely loosing the air from her lungs, she exhaled and squeezed the trigger.

In a blink, his head snapped back and exploded into fine red chunks with a sickening crack. It took one heartbeat for the body to fall and two more for the first scream to pierce the air. Chaos erupted in their little party.

She began to dismantle her rifle, calm and sure as she ever was after a kill. They weren't personal, just business, even if she kind of liked Damon Baird.

* * *

Bernie woke with a strangled scream. She had been barely conscious when her hands covered her mouth, always vigilant of the other men trying to sleep in the barracks. It had only been a dream. She was shaking and she felt sick, but it was only an awful nightmare.

She took a moment to compose herself then rolled to the right to see Baird sound asleep on his cot, his usual grimace lining his face even in sleep. She sighed. She never dreamed so realistically. Damon Baird was just that much of an ass, that egotistical, that he would demand a starring role in her subconscious. She reached across the small gap and stroked his cheek with motherly affection.

She wondered how he slept so soundly.


	5. Nurse Me

_"__**Nurse Me**__" - one character healing another._

"Damn it, are you trying to burn my skin off?"

"Maybe if you'd just hold still, it wouldn't hurt as much."

"What kind of field medic are you, anyway? You know you're not supposed to use alcohol to clean a wound, right?"

"So you want me to use the water from our canteens? You realize that's unsanitary and would have you down with an infection? Just leave the first-aid to me, sir."

Sofia stuck Baird with a glare and, predictably, he gave in. He was in no condition to argue. He was sitting, shirtless and vulnerable, in an abandoned building that looked ready to collapse, and he was losing a lot of blood from the gash in his waist. He hoped it was a superficial wound. A cleaver had come too close for comfort in the last skirmish; now his side was torn up and he felt light-headed from the shock, and maybe from blood loss. He couldn't tell.

The cadet succeeded in making him sit still as she applied an antiseptic spray. Cleaning the wound was harder; her lieutenant was ticklish. After three times, she called Cole over to hold him.

"So how's it look, Doc?" Cole asked when she finished. "Is he gonna live?"

"Unfortunately." She leaned forward by a centimeter, eyes narrowed on the wound. "Looks like he needs stitches, though."

"No way!" Baird yelped. "No way in hell am I getting stitched up."

"Do you want to bleed out?"

"Don't be so dramatic. It can't be _that_ bad."

"Is our great lieutenant afraid of a tiny needle?" Paduk goaded, coming over to inspect the gash for himself.

Baird lowered his arms protectively, careful of the blood. "No, but we don't have the sanitary space for this," he replied. He looked down at Sofia. "Just slap a bandage on it and we'll wait until we're back at base. I can get a real surgeon to stitch me up there."

"Sir, I've been trained for this," Sofia said; she was already searching for the items in her rucksack. "Just relax and try to ignore the sting."

"I said get me a bandage, cadet!" He was starting to bleed again, damn it. He was getting too worked up about a needle and the smug grin on Paduk's face wasn't helping. He was not afraid of needles—although he never had reason to be. He never felt one before. Shit, was he really afraid of a tiny piece of metal?

Sofia found the needle and thread, packaged in a sanitary container, and motioned to Cole. "Hold him, please. Sir, this is for your own good."

Baird screwed his eyes shut as Cole restrained him. He braced for the first bite of the needle; it was cold, sharp, and immediate. It felt worse than the three foot tall cleaver.


	6. Wed Me

_"__**Wed Me**__" - write about a character under the subject of wedlock_

"Today's the day, big guy. Nervous yet? It's natural to have cold feet. I won't stop you if you want to run."

"Baird, shut the hell up," Marcus growled. He stood in front of a mirror trying to straighten his bow tie. Surely he wore one as a kid, Baird thought, watching with growing amusement. But Marcus wasn't born for high society; it was always his place to be a soldier, even Baird could see that.

Not that much soldiering had to be done now. The Locust War was almost ten years ago. Baird never expected to live this long, but he was glad he did; they wouldn't have rebuilt nearly as fast without him. There was still a lot of work to do, but today it seemed like half of the population had cleared their schedule for this event. It had enraged Marcus when he received random well wishes from the public; he wanted a quiet ceremony, but had made the mistake of telling Baird.

_Yeah, fuck that. We all need this._

"I'm just saying, it's never too late to back out," Baird continued. "Come on, married life is some scary shit. You'll be all 'Yes, dear' to everything and in bed by five—and for the love of God, let _me_ do that."

Baird pushed Marcus's hands away and undid the bow tie; after all the fidgeting and pulling, it had to be retied. Apparently years of drills had made the great Marcus Fenix forget, but Baird never forgot even the most trivial amount of information.

"Why do you even need the ceremony? It's not like you guys try to hide it anymore. Everyone knew back on Azura."

"It's important to her," Marcus replied, lips stiff as Baird worked. "She wants something more than words and the half-assed attention I offered during the war. We've been living together for three years. Marriage isn't going to change what we have, but she insisted."

"Withholding sex?" Baird guessed, grinning.

Marcus grunted.

The blond finished his work with a chuckle and stepped back. "You damn dog. We're still trying to get the world back on its feet and all you care about is your sex life."

"It's not like that and you know it. I just … want to show her I love her," Marcus finished with a mumble.

_Ten years and he's still emotionally constipated._ "And we're all ready to see something normal. No one thought the war was over even with Myrrah's death—but this?" Baird shook his head. "It's symbolic in more ways than one."

"The great 'war hero' marries and peace is achieved? What the hell do you call the last ten years?"

"A dream. This makes it real, Marcus. It's going to be like a new era after this."

The men were quiet for a few short moments. Baird could hardly tell, but Marcus did look scared. The ceremony wasn't going to change anything on the outside; inside, well, Baird would be conflicted even if he was sure who he was marrying. He could imagine what the other man might be feeling but it was time for change. Marcus and Anya had tiptoed around each other for years, far longer than Baird knew them. It was time they officially put it out there and took some time for themselves. From the news broadcasts, Kaia looked beautiful this time of year. A perfect honeymoon location.

"Well," Baird said, breaking the silence, "I gotta go take my seat. You know, I thought someone would offer me the position of Best Man—"

"Baird."

"I know. I'm joking." Baird patted the other man's back in a familiar gesture, twenty years ago, he would have laughed at. "You know he's been looking out for you. He's got his kids, Maria, his parents—he's happy. He wants you to be happy too."

"And Carlos," Marcus said softly. "He better damn well have found Carlos."

Baird didn't know a Carlos and thought better of it to ask. This was Marcus's day; the past could be dug up any other time. A lot of Gears still suffered from PTSD, Baird included, but he wouldn't let anything ruin the wedding. He'd even tackle a crying baby if he had to. Today would be _perfect._

Unless he forgot to deliver the groom.

Music began to play from down the hall. Baird checked his watch; guests were probably still being seated, but Marcus was supposed to be standing upfront five minutes ago.

"Ah shit." Baird grabbed his suit jacket from the chair he threw it on and slipped into it. "Just remember—deep breaths, don't touch your tie, and the words are 'I do.' In that order. Oh, and it's a beautiful day, so try to smile."

Marcus snapped out of his past and offered a lopsided smirk. "You've gone soft, Baird."

"And you're a fucking pansy, Fenix. Now go get hitched and live happily ever after. You've earned it."


	7. Remember Me

_"__**Remember Me**__" - one character trying to get another to remember them _

Coffins, caskets, bins—whatever Tyrans called them, the sight of one made Bernie's chest tight. Fourteen years ago, she would have given anything to have the resources to bury the dead; it was better this way. There was ceremony, there was closure.

But it didn't make it any less painful when Death snatched a loved one.

The news had broke earlier yesterday morning. Sergeant Damon Baird, better known for his heroic efforts during the Locust War, had succumb to his battle with post-traumatic stress disorder. He was found in his New Tollen apartment by his close friend and warmate, Corporal Augustus Cole.

She hadn't missed a beat. She immediately packed her bags, forced Vic to pack more than a clean shirt and razor, and hauled her ass halfway across the globe to be there for her boys. Now she sat beside Cole in the spacious church, clutching a handkerchief as she tried to look anywhere except at the body. _Baird had just barely reached fifty. He can't be gone._ Yet there was the evidence.

After the service and the burial, after the handful of unknown faces departed, Delta Squad stood together in the cemetery for the first time in eight years. Bernie barely recognized Marcus if not for the blue eyes; his hair was turning white and he'd lost some muscle mass, but he was still the unmovable Marcus Fenix. He and Anya had adopted a baby boy and girl, which Bernie would have found sweet in another circumstance.

Cole was still The Cole Train, but today he was subdued. He mentioned founding a new Thrashball league but otherwise remained quiet. Bernie didn't like to see him this way. She wanted her good-natured Cole back, the one that assured her it was okay to be scared and vulnerable because she had great friends.

"Remember on Vectes when Baird used that shitty Hammer of Dawn relay to blow up a lambent leviathan?" she asked, her voice cracking on his name. "Damn idiot nearly took out half the island."

Cole, looking a little sick, laughed weakly. "And then he blew up Sovereign with some stroke of genius."

"The time he dropped his pants in front of Sam, Anya, and Alex."

"When he pulled us out of the shit thanks to his handy-man skills."

"When he was stuck in a Locust POW pod," Marcus offered. "Things were definitely quieter then."

"Things'll be quiet now," Cole replied, voice wavering. "I got so used to his jabbering, I never noticed how empty a silence could be until we got separate apartments. We've been together since the beginning, man. I saved his ass and he gave me a new life—all I really knew was Thrashball, but he helped me find my place in the world. He taught me things I never even dreamed of and now—_damn it_." He wiped his eyes and Bernie touched his arm. He immediately wrapped her in a bone crunching hug she was so familiar with, but this was different. This wasn't relief and friendship; this was desolation, loss.

Cole didn't try to restrain it. He sobbed openly on Bernie's shoulder and she did her best to comfort him. She let him cry it, rubbing his back and answering every desperate "He was my brother; he was my best friend" with soft noises. She had never seen this side of Cole and it made her heart ache as she cried with him.

The bonds forged through steel and blood were most certainly stronger than any other relationship. It was more than trust or empathy; they became part of you, strengthened you, and losing one friend was if losing half your heart.

Watching Marcus stubbornly swipe at his eyes, Bernie feared for the day they'd lose another family member, even if she went next. But for now, she was alive. She could remember the man she was proud to call her son and help the men and women she'd come to love so easily heal.


	8. Drink Me

_"__**Drink Me**__" - characters drinking, alone or with each other._

Baird was enjoying his three hours of downtime in Pelruan's bar. Bernie suggested he tried their home brew, and when it was evident the engineer corps didn't have any work for him, he found himself traveling north to the small town. If anyone asked, he was going to use the excuse that he needed to speak to Rossi, but he'd been sitting in the bar for a good thirty minutes without interruption. The locals kept to themselves and Baird stayed hunched over the counter top, nursing his drink to last at least ten more minutes, listening in on the quiet conversations taking place around him.

Then the peaceful atmosphere was shattered with the arrival of two new patrons. They laughed obnoxiously loud and the sound grated on his nerves. He barely had five hours of sleep. It was more than he was used to, but definitely not enough to deal with them. He didn't have to turn to know who stormed through the doors.

"Hey, Princess, didn't expect to see your royal ass here." Alex came to lean on the counter beside him and he hunched further over his drink, protective, for a brief moment. "Warming up my seat already, huh?"

He sat up to acknowledge her and almost felt the need to apologize to the other patrons for her loud mouth. "Ah shit, look what the cat drug in," he replied, and was pleasantly surprised to find Gill Gettner standing behind Alex, stifling her amusement. "I'm not surprised you convinced Gettner to join your little feminist movement down here. Definitely her kind of scene."

"Wow, he really does respond," Gettner said, her attention on Alex. "I thought you were pulling my leg. I'll remember that for next time and make sure Princess Baird's throne is properly prepped."

"Yeah, I got him trained like a proper mutt. Isn't that right, Princess?" Alex patted his head and he pushed her hand away, sneering.

"What are you two doing here, anyway? I don't remember anyone calling for prostitutes."

The impact was sudden—Baird didn't have time to register that Alex had shoved him straight off the stool. He was just on the floor, winded and confused, and seriously pissed as others laughed. The redhead stood above him with a triumphant smirk.

"You'd know all about them from Daddy, right?" she spat. "He ever buy you a few to prove your manhood?"

Shit, she was fighting dirty today. _Okay, so maybe I started it. Fine details._ Gettner took it all in with an amused glint in her eye. She was definitely cataloging this. Alex was the only one who could disarm him so easily and quickly. It made him feel like an idiot.

Baird picked himself up off the floor and brushed off his pants. He couldn't show her that he was upset; oh, she _knew_, but to show her would give her too much satisfaction. She sat on his seat, smug, and clearly waiting for his rebuttal. He considered not rising to the bait, but he wasn't as mature as he should have been around Alex.

"Actually, your mom was—"

"Really, Baird? A 'your mom' joke?" She took a swig of his beer. "God, how old are you?"

"It is kind of pathetic," Gettner agreed with a chuckle. She took up position at the stool next to Alex.

"Who let you out of your pen?" Baird demanded. "I thought you were glued to your bird."

"Sergeant Brand stopped by to invite me out for a drink. Every woman needs a little girl time here and there, and as much as I love my Raven, it has a distinctive male energy. Just doesn't cut it." But the way she shrugged said something more to Baird. It was too non-committal. It wasn't like Gettner. It piqued his interest.

"And a little birdie might have told me you had some free time," Alex said. "It's been a while since we last saw each other. I wanted to check in on my favorite bastard."  
"A stalker. Great. I never realized how much you love me," he grumbled.

She scoffed indignantly. "Don't flatter yourself, Princess. I don't care how great a lay you are, I'm not interested."

Baird had already queued plenty of insults to whatever she could say, but that was the last thing he expected. "Wait, is someone spreading rumors about my skills?" The idea panicked him. Since coming to Vectes, he barely socialized with the locals—and like hell he would consider a Gear—but he had been around a lot of COG civvies recently. Strictly for repairs. _Why would anyone want to spread rumors about me? It's not like there's a record or an ability to hold court. Shit, no one cares anymore, why should I? I bet it was fucking Alex. I could see her—_

The women broke into uncontrolled laughter.

"I knew it! He's a regular egomaniac!" Gettner gasped between laughs.

Damn it. He was _really_ off his game today.

He tried to brush it off with a shrug. "Hey, it's a legitimate concern. If there's a woman out there who believes she slept with me, I'd like to set her straight, maybe meet my imposter."

"Sure. How about you shut up and get me a drink?"

"What do I look like, the bar maid? Get it yourself."

"Baird," Alex said, and her voice was made of steel, "be a gracious host and get our pilot friend a beer."

So she knew something was up. Baird wondered if this little trip was really just a girls day out, but it was hard to imagine Gettner leaving her Raven for anything other than food. Okay, maybe not even that. She had to keep a stash somewhere.

He didn't want to give Gettner the impression that Alex could order him around. She couldn't; no one could. But he went behind the bar and pulled up a mug, anyway. _Because I'm nice. New leaf and all that shit._

"Alright, one house brew," he said, handing over the foaming mug. Yeah, the locals knew how to make some good stuff. "But it's not cheap. This economy runs on the barter system. What do you have to offer me?"

Gettner shrugged. "A kick in the ass? It'd be good for you."

"Come on, this is a bar, I'm a bar tender. You're supposed to tell me your life story so I can psychoanalyze you." He leaned his arms on the counter. "Let's hear it."

Alex cast him a glare that could probably melt Hoffman, but Baird wasn't bothered. She could take all day trying to get the truth from Gettner. He wasn't like that. He didn't beat unnecessarily around the bush. He wanted the truth, and he wanted it now.

Unfortunately Gettner was as stubborn as a mule.

"My dad died when I was little and my mom never loved me. I used to play in a quarry and one day I gained superpowers, so I dedicated my life to fighting crime. How's that?" she asked and took a long pull from her mug. So she was going to stonewall. That was fine; Baird knew that tactic. He'd done it enough in his life.

"Gee, what a hard life you had. What power did you get? Super bitchiness?"

"Hey, Princess, why don't you disappear for a while?" Alex suggested. "Let the girls chat. We're going to talk about guys and make up. Nothing you want to hear."

"No, no, I'd like to hear this. Here, I'll help. Who, in Delta Squad, do you think has the biggest junk?"

"Oh my god—get out!"

"Hey, I was here first!" It was a weak and pathetic excuse but Gettner was obviously mulling something over. He wanted to know what. He wasn't terribly interested in her personal life; he just liked to know things. Any personal information he could pick up about Gettner was a plus in his book. The woman was a complete enigma that flew Ravens. That was all he knew about her.

Alex rolled her eyes and finished off the rest of his beer. "There are things out there that even you don't understand, Princess. This is one of them. I'm sure there are plenty of other places for you to haunt, so why don't you leave the girl talk to us? In other words:_ Piss off_."

Baird could have chosen to stay, but Alex had made her point clear. She was on a mission, and that was to help a fellow Gear. Whatever the issue was, Baird wasn't welcome. He was good at fixing technical problems, not personal problems, and Alex was aware of that. Whatever he could say would just piss her off and make his life with Gettner harder.

_Shit, the day I let a woman order me around. Eleanor always said this day would come. _

__He could give Alex this one time. Gettner needed some kind of support. But next time she tried to order him around, she wouldn't get off so easy.


	9. Enamor Me

_"__**Enamor Me**__" - fluffy drabble_

The grub had him pinned. Its breath blew heavily against his face, rotten and disgusting as the rest of it. Hands tightened around his neck as he fumbled for his side arm; his rifle was discarded on the ground just feet away from him. But centimeters made all the difference in this situation. He tried to lift his head to headbutt the grub; talons bit into his skin. He tried to raise his hips to buck it off; the grub was too heavy. His fingers finally found the butt of his pistol. His vision was fading to sepia and little black star bursts ate at the corners. He wasn't going out like this. Not with a grub choking him—that would just be embarrassing.

His waning strength wasn't enough to bring the gun up. He grit his teeth and gathered enough strength to spit in the grub's face. It roared, hands tightened, and Baird choked with the force of talons on his windpipe. _Damn it, that was a wasted effort._ He really was going to die. He always thought, if it would happen, that he would go out in a blaze of glory. He'd yell at his squad to get clear of the conflict while brandishing a grenade, say a witty one-liner and then set off the explosion.

_Nope. I get to watch a grub get off on choking me._

Then the awful grin was gone.

Not with darkness like he expected; the grub's eyes rolled to the back of its head and it gurgled helplessly. Rain hit Baird's face with a hot splash and the grub fell forward. Surprised, adrenaline flooded Baird's body in a rush; trembling, his vision lit with a harsh white light and became vivid, sharper. He tore the hands away from his neck with a gasp and pushed the body off him. Voices crowded around him and he looked up.

Standing above him was the red headed Saint Felycia. He wasn't exactly religious but even he had read about her in a text about her love and protection. She protected the good and just—and a bunch of other bullshit he didn't remember. He never imagined she dished out justice with a gun.

She knelt beside him. His vision was still too blurry to see her face. Reaching out, he touched her cheek with a shaky hand. If he was dead, he would be able to touch her—or was he just crazy? His hand met soft skin.

"Shit—oh, sorry." _Cursing in front of a saint. Genius._ "Can't believe I'm dead already. Cole's gonna be pissed."

"Lieutenant, are you okay? Sir?"

He sat up and the world swam. Something wet ran down his forehead, his neck hurt like hell, but none of that mattered. He was dead. The Baird name was officially wiped off of Sera. _This will make for one awkward family reunion._

The saint touched his shoulder. "Sir?"

He chuckled bitterly. "You're the saint here, why call me sir? Let's just get this over with. Are you going to take me or not?"

"Take you where?"

"Wherever guys like me go. Killers, bastards, the idiot who couldn't drum up a shred of decency to tell his squad how proud he was of them."

"I say we leave him here," another voice said. He thought he knew that one.

"How's he doin'? asked yet another.

"He's confused," Felycia replied softly. "Lieutenant, you're not dead."

"I never got to tell Cole how much he meant to me," Baird continued. "And Paduk—what a crazy son of a bitch. God, Sofia will be pissed. She looked up to me. I wanted to tell her that I was proud of her and I … I actually … ."

"Baird! Hey! Snap out of it, man!"

Baird definitely knew that voice. It was Cole, calling from the other side. Baird blinked rapidly but the world still didn't come into focus. He felt sick and ached a lot more than he remembered; his throat felt sore as if he had been screaming for a long time. With this much pain, he knew he was alive. Wait, he had been strangled within an inch of his life. What happened after that?

He turned toward Saint Felycia but his vision had cleared just enough to see Sofia's worried face. His heart plummeted. _Shit, what did I say?_

"Please tell me you saw Saint Felycia pass through here," he whispered. He was beyond embarrassed; he was beyond mortified. He really wished it had been Felycia that appeared to him and saved him the trouble of coming back to himself. Crawling into a hole and dying sounded just fine to him.

It took her a moment to respond. She almost looked like she would cry. Finally she smiled. "Of course, sir. She brought you back to us. You should definitely say your prayers tonight."


	10. Paint Me

_"__**Paint Me**__" - one character drawing a picture of another_

"Remind me again why I agreed to do this?"

"It's just a portrait, not a death penalty. And I asked very nicely when Cole happened to be around so you wouldn't wuss out."

He grimaced. Okay, so that was kind of underhanded of her. _What, did she think I wouldn't agree any other way?_

"Stop moving, damn it."

_Oh wait, I wouldn't._

Baird was perched in a chair in Sam's quarters as she sat cross-legged on her cot, a beaten and thin sketchpad in her lap. He still wasn't entirely sure how he had gotten roped into this; it was all one big blur. One minute Sam was blabbering about how their off-duty schedules always intersected, then about skills fade, and suddenly Cole was on his right talking about tattoos and—_shit, it was set up. So why exactly do I get to be the guinea pig?_

He didn't like posing. He didn't like portraits. Once every three years—or maybe it was five—his parents would dress him up and sit him down for a family portrait. It wasn't good enough to use a camera. Jocelin Baird insisted on an artist—"The man who painted _Embry's Regret,_" he said one year; another year it was an award-winning woman. So little Damon was subjected to several rounds of torture. He never saw any of the finished portraits. He assumed his parents had burned them or they were lost in the sinkhole that was his house.

"You're frowning again," Sam said, annoyed.

"Are you done yet? You said this was the last session, that it wouldn't take long. And you never said why_ I_ had to do this."

"Just hang on. Bloody impatient today."

"I'm a busy man," he replied, a self-satisfied grin in place. Truthfully, he didn't have much to do. He just hated being in the same room as Sam this long, especially with the way she kept looking at him—he wasn't a _thing_ to be studied, damn it. It was too personal. He couldn't take it much longer.

But he sat five more minutes and watched her work. She was devoted; bending over the paper, head bowed, eyes peeking up at him regularly with their unsettling gaze. Her hand moved with sure strokes that maybe she had finally figured him out and could get it all on paper. Baird felt a pang of jealousy. He hated artistic types. He hated that they could create something from nothing. He couldn't do that with machinery.

After much sighing and fidgeting—and Sam snapping at him to knock it off—she stretched her spine and smiled. "Ah, finally done. You can move now, you big baby."

Baird stood, rolling his neck and shoulders, and made his way toward the door. "Great. See you later, Sam."

"Hang on. Don't you want to see it?"

He paused in the doorway. "I have a mirror, thanks."

She crawled off the cot and shoved the paper into his hands. "Take it, asshole. Maybe you'll get it through your fucking fat head." She shoved past him and he watched, confused, until she disappeared around a corner.

Then he looked at the portrait.

It was a detailed charcoal sketch; he could see individual strands of his hair, the stubble on his chin, all the worn lines of his face. But for once Baird wasn't seeing himself through his own eyes.

The man on the paper looked exhausted, maybe even a little lost. The small smirk on his lips wasn't fooling anyone; he was full of shit. He was nearly middle-aged and still acting like a petulant child.

_ Is that how people really see me? Shit, what was that saying my grandfather used? Kitten with a lion's mane?_

Baird scoffed and tore the portrait in half, folding it to fit in his satchel to be used later as scrap.

_ I fucking hate artistic types._


	11. Unbind Me

**"Unbind Me"** - one character freeing another

The man threw her into the water and Baird watched, horrified, as she plunged like a rock. His heart sank with her. Faster than he could think, his fingers started undoing the clasps and buckles of his chest plate. Logically, it was idiotic; he was still in very real danger and even without his chest plate, his boots would pull him down. But he didn't have time to react like a normal human being. He just had to act.

The man across from him stood, victorious for all he knew, with the ugliest grin Baird had ever seen. "Go get your bitch, soldier."

And then half of his jaw was missing in the split second of an explosion. The man fell forward, his lackeys swarmed and fired their weapons, but Baird's focus was elsewhere. _Paduk will take care of them. He nearly shot a man's face off—he'll be fine._ The chest plate came free; he ditched it on the dock and pulled his goggles over his eyes.

_Five minutes or less. It takes barely any time to drown._

He dove in.

His boots pulled him under faster than he thought. For two heartbeats, he panicked and tried to control his descent by flailing his legs helplessly. _Great, now I'm going to drown. No, shit no. We searched for too long. I'm not going to fail her or Paduk. I _can't_ fail._

Through the murky waters, he spotted her. Her red hair blossomed in the water like a unique anemone, and it was almost peaceful—but the way she thrashed told him something different. He reached for her and caught one of her bound wrists.

They drew level. Her wide, terrified eyes were beginning to glaze over. _Loss of consciousness and then it's only a matter of minutes. Come on, Baird, do this quickly._

He climbed down her body until he was at her ankles, tied with rope and attached to an old COG ammo crate. His muscle memory never failed him before and he was thankful he had drilled himself to reach his tools in times of emergency; it didn't take long to find his small tactical knife.

Sawing through the rope, he realized not only was he running out of oxygen but that his stamina was rapidly draining. The water slowed him down, tugged at his every movement. He wanted nothing more than to take a deep breath and try again; his lungs ached with the compulsion. _I'm not gonna make it. Shit, I'm not trained for maritime operations._ He wasn't sure adrenaline and fear would be enough to overcome.

But the rope cut. Sofia immediately ascended towards the light of the surface; dressed in rags, she was no longer weighed down. But she fought against buoyancy to reach her bound hands towards him.

He didn't give her false hope. He resisted the urge to stretch out his hand; instead, he offered her a smile as water flooded his lungs. She kicked and swiped her hands through the water but finally lost consciousness and floated to the surface. His boots drug him further down, his lungs ached, and his limbs were heavy. But he hadn't failed. In the year it took to find her, he promised Paduk he would do whatever he could to get her back.

_She'll be okay. Paduk's up there waiting for her. At least I got to see her face one last time._


End file.
